Page 15

CHAPTER 14

Alana

The dream comes in waves.

Flashes of sound. Panic.

Hands on my face. The gag again.

Too tight.

“Should me and the boys take her for a little ride first?”

But this time, no ding goes off.

No payment comes through.

I’m pulled from the chair.

I become flailing limbs.

Kicking, scratching, clawing at whatever I can.

I’m pushed to the floor.

My arms are pinned above my head.

My legs are being forced open.

I can’t—

I wake with a gasp, jolting upright in bed, drenched in sweat.

My heart’s galloping.

I feel the soft weight of Salem against my hip.

He’s curled beside me, sprawled like a shadow with eyes glowing faintly in the dark.

When I stir, he lifts his head lazily, blinks once and lowers it back down onto my thigh like I’m a very inconvenient pillow he refuses to vacate.

“Thanks for standing guard, handsome,” I whisper, running a trembling hand down his back.

My breath is still too fast. My chest too tight.

I throw the covers off, careful not to disturb Salem more than I already have and sit on the edge of the bed, elbows on knees, trying to ground myself.

It’s like the air’s heavier now.

Thicker. Too many memories pressed between the walls of my mind.

There’s no way I’m falling back asleep.

I pad toward the kitchen, leaving Salem cuddled up in my bed.

Hunter’s door is still closed, but knowing he’s there makes me feel a little safer.

He’s obviously still asleep.

Lucky bastard.

I flick on the kitchen light, low and pull out a mug.

Chamomile. My go-to on nights like this.

This is a new dream, but not the first time panic’s barged in like an unwelcome guest in the early hours of the morning.

I drop the teabag into the mug and reach for the kettle, when my fingers catch the lip of the mug and it tumbles off the counter.

Time slows. The shatter is deafening.

I freeze.

Well, shit.

“Alana?”

Hunter’s voice cuts through the silence.

Low, groggy, with that rough edge only 3 a.m. can bring.

His door creaks open.

Bare feet on the floor.

He’s pulling a hoodie over his torso and he’s shirtless underneath.

The little skin I catch a glimpse of?

My nightmare is long forgotten.

Leave it to him to break my brain with abs.

Fight or flight has officially been replaced with thirst.

Every hard ridge of his abdomen is inked and annoyingly perfect.

I think about trailing my tongue along his waistband…

But then the hoodie comes down.

I force my gaze back to his face.

“Sorry,” I whisper, feeling guilty.

For waking him. For staring.

For both.

“You okay?” he asks, scanning me quickly, eyes flicking over my bare legs, the tension in my shoulders.

Not leering. Just assessing.

Calculating.

Does he think I’m trying to escape in nothing but his hoodie, barefoot, breaking more of his precious rules?

“I’m fine,” I say, forcing my voice steady.

“Just… couldn’t sleep.”

His gaze slides to the shattered mug.

“Nightmare?”

I nod.

He steps forward, crouching to pick up the shards like he’s handling something fragile, even though it’s just ceramic.

He tosses them in the trash, then looks back at me.

“You’re shaking.”

I glance at my hands.

Damn it. I am.

He doesn’t ask permission.

Just steps forward and takes them in his.

Warm. Firm. Grounding.

“Breathe with me,” he murmurs.

I do. In. Out. His thumbs stroke across my knuckles.

God, I hate that this feels better than any grounding exercise Emily ever taught me.

“Good girl,” he whispers, barely audible.

Who knew lust could override fear?

Someone publish that in Psychology Today .

“I was gonna make tea,” I whisper.

“Didn’t mean to wake you.”

“Good thing you did,” he says, letting go of my hands.

I almost whimper at the loss.

“You need anything else?” he asks, already grabbing two mugs.

He drops a tea bag into each, fills them with water and hands one to me without waiting for an answer.

I glance up at him. “You offering to tuck me in?”

He doesn’t smile.

But something softens.

“Do you need me to?” His voice is gentle, but the weight of it lands low in my stomach.

Dangerous territory.

He looks at me like I’m fragile.

I’m not. Not right now.

I’m just horny. But I can’t exactly say that, now can I?

“No,” I murmur. “Just… maybe sit with me while I finish my tea?”

He nods.

“Of course.”

We sit at the kitchen counter, knees almost touching.

I hold my mug like it’s the last thing tethering me to sanity and not climbing this man like a tree.

Say something, Alana.

“Do you ever get nightmares?” I blurt out.

He’s quiet for a beat.

“Used to. Still do, sometimes.”

“What do you do when they come?”

Hunter leans back, eyes on his mug.

“I count things. Doors. Exit routes. Seconds between lightning and thunder. Doesn’t really matter what. Counting helps.”

I feel like I should say something profound back.

That’s how conversation works, right?

“I was in such a good place with my anxiety before I got taken. I was in complete control. Then it happened… and it set off a whole new set of triggers. But I feel like I’m slowly regaining control again. I just, hate that I’m not over it yet.”

Hunter turns to me.

“You don’t get over something like that. You get through it. Piece by piece.” And then, almost too quiet to hear, “You’re doing better than you think.”

I know he’s right.

But part of me still wants to fast-forward to the part where I’m whole again.

I finish my tea, place the cup in the sink and say, “Thank you, Hunter.”

I walk back to my room.

“Goodnight, Alana,” he says.

Quiet. Steady.

I don’t look back.

I lock my door, open my bedside drawer and power up Trevor.

He’s got some serious work to do tonight.